


My Broken Baby

by toyhto



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Angst, But hey he came back from being dead, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Has Issues, Mentions of past violence too, One Shot, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, R plus L equals J, Scars, TV-show compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7888057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The winter was there, he knew it as the snow fell against the windows, and the woman lying next to him was everything he cared about, everything his weary heart still beat for. He had to keep her safe, no matter what. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Broken Baby

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt in valar-morekinksplease. And oh I just spent the whole Saturday afternoon (and the most of the evening too) writing slightly dark Jon with a lot of issues.

The raven had brought a letter for the King in the North. He drew a heavy breath before opening the seal.  
  
_I know you will not believe me,_ wrote a man whom he knew only from the stories his father had told him ages ago, _but I assure you I am not lying. I stood by Eddard Stark when he came out of that tower with you on his arms. I hold his secret all these years but now he is dead and you are the King and I ask his forgiveness for now I think you must know. You are not his bastard son. You are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, and if you wish I will swear this is the truth in front of a heart tree.  
  
_ His first thought was to burn the letter. Surely he had lost enough already. But as he walked to the fire he knew he couldn’t do it, not even now that he had already thought he’d gone beyond honor and justice, beyond death. Even know the truth hold him so tight that he felt his steps slow down as he walked through the corridor.  
  
He didn’t realize he was looking for Sansa until he was standing on her door. She wasn’t in her room and he stood there with the letter still in his hand, and there was a weirdly familiar ache in his chest. He had lost them all and then he had gotten one back, only one, his sister, and now a single letter took her away from him again. He had no sisters nor brothers. He was alone.  
  
As he turned his back, ready to walk away, he heard a soft voice through a small door in the side of the room. He rushed in and then had to look away, because Sansa was taking a bath, her red hair falling over her bare shoulders and her back, almost reaching the cold floor. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him come in, he thought, because she said nothing, and he cleared his throat and then there was this soft whimper again.  
  
His blood run cold when he stepped forward, kneeling by her side. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was half-open and the water in her bath was red as blood.  
  
“Sansa,” he called her, first softly, then louder when she didn’t seem to hear him, “ _Sansa_ , wake up, please just wake up _,_ what the fuck have you done?”  
  
Perhaps she heard him then, perhaps she felt him shaking her gently, and as she slightly opened her eyes he let out the breath he had been holding in.  
  
“Jon,” she said with a hoarse voice, frowning, “what are you doing here?”  
  
“You’re bleeding,” he said, holding her face in his hands, “you’re fucking bleeding, Sansa, and you were passed out and didn’t answer me. We have to get you out, the water has gone cold already, and then I’ll find someone who can help – “  
  
“No.” There was something in her eyes, a desperate plead. “No, Jon, you can’t tell anyone. You can’t. Just help me out, I’ll be fine. I just fell asleep.”  
  
“You didn’t fall asleep,” he protested but took her arm around his shoulder anyway and lifted her out of the bath. As she leaned against him and stumbled out of the water, the red in it moved almost like a living thing, and he thought his own hands were shaking. He helped her to a chair and put his own cloak around her. Her eyes were still a bit hazy and she licked her lips, and he was afraid she might fall down onto the floor. “Can you sit? I’m going to go and get master Wolkan, or anyone else who can help you – “  
  
She grabbed his arm. “ _No._ It’s nothing, Jon, it will pass. No one must know. Just hold me a bit longer and I’ll be fine.”  
  
“You certainly aren’t fine,” he said, but he couldn’t leave her alone, not when she was weak like this and when he was quite certain there was still more blood running down her bare thigh. “What’s this, Sansa? Please, tell me – “  
  
“Moon tea,” she said, barely a whisper, and when he closed his eyes she said, “look at me, Jon. It’s moon tea. I was carrying his child.”  
  
He kissed her forehead that was dump with sweat, and cold, too cold. She didn’t let go of his arm and he pressed his own fingers above hers. “Just let me sleep,” she said, “it’s fine, it’s over now, please let me sleep a little and then we can forget about him for good.”  
  
_We never will,_ he thought. He kissed her hair, red as fire and red as the blood on her thighs, and then he carried her to her bed, pulled furs onto her and sat next to her as she watched him with eyes half-closed. Then she slowly fell into sleep but he couldn’t leave, he only sat there remembering promises he had made.  
  
**  
  
“I’ll watch over you,” he said when she drew a sharp breath and opened her eyes, “I promise, Sansa, no one will hurt you ever again.”  
  
“You’re still here.”  
  
“Of course I’m still here.”  
  
“You’re the King,” she said, and he thought she had to be mocking him, but her blue eyes were sincere. “You must have a lot of responsibilities now. You didn’t have to sit by my side.”  
  
“You’re all I have, Sansa.” He tried very hard to sound gentle, and Sansa didn’t seem to mind even though he didn’t manage it too well. For too long had he been talking to men and spearwives only, he didn’t remember anymore how to speak to a woman like his sister – and he felt something inside him going cold as he remembered the letter. “ _Sansa_. There’s something I need to tell you.”  
  
“Tell me,” she said, sitting up. There was pain in her face and he stood up right away, but she raised her hand to stop him. “I’m fine, Jon, only quite sore. Just tell me.”  
  
“I’m not your brother,” he said with a hoarse voice. He saw her frown and wince and had to look away. “I got a letter from Howland Reed, a man who was beside father… beside Ned in Robert’s Rebellion. He swore it to be true. He swore that I’m a son of Rhaegar and Lyanna.”  
  
“Gods,” Sansa muttered. “And do you believe him?”  
  
“I wish he hadn’t told me,” he heard himself say. “You were my sister, my only family, and now I have no one.”  
  
“Jon,” she whispered, her voice soft once again, and he took a deep breath and made himself look at her. She was holding furs onto her chest and he realized she was still naked underneath, and that there had to be blood on the bed.  
  
“You should have told me what you were going to do,” he said, when she seemed to be still looking for the right words. “I would have helped you.”  
  
“Helped me?” There was a hint of a smile so sad and tired it made every bit of him feel somehow heavier. “Would you have taken the baby out of me yourself? Or would you have hold me as I bleed it out?”  
  
“Aye,” he said, “aye, I would have hold you. You didn’t have to be alone.”  
  
She opened her mouth and then closed it again, letting out a deep sigh. “I’m not… I’m not used to having someone I could trust.”  
  
“You can trust me,” he said. “I might not be your brother anymore but you can always trust me.”  
  
She looked at him like someone who has sworn not to trust anyone ever again, and he wanted to hold her, to kiss her forehead and to caress her hair. He would say it to her until she believed him, no matter how long it would take. He would swear to keep her safe and one day she would believe him.  
  
He got rid of the cold red water of the bath, he burned the sheets that were stained with her blood. He brought clothes for her and helped her to dress, and she didn’t protest even when his fingers pressed shortly against her bare shoulders. And as he walked away, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and get back to her, get back to keeping her safe, but she was right, he was the King now. It weighted him down, it made him heavier than ever, and still his steps were steady and his voice was firm when he told them no one was to visit lady Sansa today, she was tired and needed her rest.  
  
**  
  
“Where’s she?” Littlefinger asked with a mocking smile on his face, “where’s your dear sister?”  
  
“She’s none of your concerns anymore, lord Baelish,” Jon said.  
  
“I haven’t seen her in two days. Is she ill?”  
  
“Aye, she’s ill, and she wishes to be alone for now.”  
  
“I’d really like her to tell me that herself.”  
  
“You don’t believe your King, lord Baelish?”  
  
“You aren’t my King,” the man said, and Jon had a weird feeling that he might laugh, because wasn’t that what he had desired these past weeks? Hadn’t he hoped they’d stop this stupid play, stop calling him a king when he clearly was a man tired and broken?  
  
“Aye,” he said, and the other man watched him with narrowed eyes, “I’m not your King but you’re a guest in my castle and they call me a King here. You can take my word that lady Sansa wishes to be alone, or you can leave, either is fine with me.”  
  
“She’s not yours.” Littlefinger’s voice was barely a whisper, and still it cut through the wind. They were standing on the wall, looking across the frozen landscape. “She’s not yours, and if you forget that, she’ll make you remember. She might be your sister but you don’t own her.”  
  
“Haven’t you heard?” he said, suddenly so very tired. The minute he got rid of Littlefinger he would climb to the tower where Sansa was staying, and she would talk to him and he would sit by the fire and just watch her. “She’s not my sister anymore, if the story about my parents is true.”  
  
The man with cold eyes just looked at him. Of course Littlefinger had heard, he knew it, the man made it his business to know every rumor. Jon had told only Davos and Tormund and a few others, but he hadn’t made them to keep it secret, because there was really no point. It either was true or it wasn’t, and they’d either choose that he was no King after all, or they wouldn’t. He didn’t care, not as long as he got to sit by Sansa.  
  
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Littlefinger said calmly, “and I’ll say this again: she isn’t yours, lord Snow.”  
  
“And I’ll say this again,” Jon said, “you’re free to leave whenever you like.”  
  
**  
  
“I saw Littlefinger today,” she said as he stepped over the threshold and closed the door. She was sitting in her chair, wearing a simple brown dress he had brought her from her chambers. She had thrown a look at him when he had asked if she rather stayed in the tower, away from the servants and rush and noise, but finally she had agreed.  
  
“Did he come up here?”  
  
“No,” she said, her blue eyes fixed on him, “I was in the courtyard.”  
  
“Sansa,” he said, trying to be gentle but it came out harsh anyway, “you probably shouldn’t. It was a rough thing you went true, and it’s cold out there, and there’re people – “  
  
“I’m not a doll.”  
  
“I know,” he said, taking a sharp breath, “Gods, I know. It’s just that you’re everything I’ve left. I fear for you.”  
  
“Ramsay’s dead,” she said softly, “we killed him, Jon. And I killed his baby. There are only scars left, and they’ll fade.”  
  
He rose his hand onto his own chest, where he wore his own fading scars under the leather and the fabric.  
  
“You must have seen them,” Sansa said, and he blinked at her. “My scars. As you helped me out of the bath that day.”  
  
“Aye,” he said slowly, “I saw them.”  
  
“They must look terrible.”  
  
He took a step closer and she trembled but didn’t step away. His fingers were cold and the skin on her neck was so warm, and she closed her eyes as he drew the neckline of her dress just a little. The scar on her shoulder was still red but fading, and he felt his breath getting caught in his throat. It was like Ramsay Bolton had wanted to paint her with the scars in order to make her his. He had hit Ramsay’s face until his eyes had gone red, but there was no way he could take the scars away from Sansa.  
  
He placed a gentle kiss on the scar on her shoulder and felt how she hold her breath. As he stepped away, she drew her dress back and swallowed.  
  
“I wish I could somehow take them away from you,” he said with a hoarse voice, “so that you wouldn’t have to wear him on your skin.”  
  
“They’ll fade,” she said in barely a whisper.  
  
“Are you tired? Do you want to rest? Or would you rather me read something to you?”  
  
“Since when do you read?” She was mocking him, he knew, but he felt himself answering her smile and it warmed him more than the fire in the room. “Actually I’d like to visit the godswood.”  
  
“It’s cold.”  
  
“So borrow me your cloak. I’ll be fine, Jon.”  
  
“I know you will,” he said, placing his cloak onto her shoulders and letting his fingers lean against her neck for a few seconds. “And I’ll come with you.”  
  
It was snowing and he drew her closer as they walked through the darkening courtyard and to the woods. He thought he heard servants whispering and played with the thought that he could tell them all off, they called him a King after all. He didn’t, though, he just walked a bit faster and hold Sansa’s hand a bit tighter and then they were out of sight, in the path that took them to the godswood and to the heart tree. He stood there and watched as Sansa sat down onto the snow in front of the wooden face with eyes that were blind. She didn’t talk and he didn’t either, he had no words of prayer left, they all had gone out of him as he had been pushed into the darkness and brought back.  
  
When they were walking back, he thought he might ask her if she had prayed, but he felt like someone was watching them and didn’t dare to speak. Ghost followed them quietly as a shadow in the snow. He walked her into her tower and then told Ghost to stay with her, and the direwolf and the woman looked at him until he closed the door. He felt far too tired walking back down, like he had left a bit too big part of himself into the room with Sansa, and when Davos and the others spoke to him about the matters of his people, he wanted nothing else than to climb back to the tower and be with her.  
  
**  
  
“Jon.”  
  
He blinked. He was sitting on a chair by the fire that had almost gone out, she was sitting on her bed, staring at him.  
  
“You don’t have to stay here,” she said, “and I don’t have to stay here, either. It’s too far away from other people. I’m well enough to go back to my own chambers.”  
  
“These are your chambers now,” Jon said. His voice was rough, perhaps he had fallen asleep for a few minutes. “And I don’t mind staying.”  
  
“I can’t stay here forever. It’s like I’m hidden in this tower.”  
  
_You are,_ he wanted to say and he had to swallow the words, because she might not understand. She couldn’t possibly know how much she meant to him. “You’ve your own tower, like you’re supposed to have. You’re lady of Winterfell.”  
  
“I could be lady of Winterfell and actually talk to someone sometimes.”  
  
“You can talk to me.”  
  
“ _Jon_ ,” she said firmer, “let me go back.”  
  
“No.”  
  
She opened her mouth and watched him and he watched her back. He had stood in the hall of Castle Black and told his brothers they were going to save the wildlings they had fought against for all their lives. This shouldn’t have been much worse, but it was, he found he needed all his strength to keep his eyes on Sansa.  
  
“I want to keep you safe,” he said finally when he couldn’t take it any longer.  
  
“You can’t tell me what to do,” she said, but her voice was shaking now, and he wanted to go to her and hold her but he couldn’t, he had to be calm. “You’re not my father. You’re not even my brother anymore.”  
  
Perhaps it was supposed to hurt him, but it didn’t. “But they call me a King.”  
  
She watched him still, and he waited for what felt like ages until she finally spoke, “yes, you’re the King.”  
  
“So you’ll stay.”  
  
“So I’ll stay,” she said, lying down in her bed. “But surely you don’t need to sleep in that chair, Jon. You can go to your own chambers.”  
  
“I’m staying with you.”  
  
“Fine,” she said, her voice sounding as tired as he felt, “ _fine._ Come and sleep next to me then.”  
  
He took a deep breath. “I couldn’t.”  
  
“Please,” Sansa said, and he wasn’t sure if it was a mockery or a genuine plead, and still he rose slowly onto his feet. She was lying amongst the furs and pillows, her red hair making a halo for her face, and there was an ache inside of him and a quiet voice telling him to stop and think, but he didn’t. “For fuck’s sake, Jon, if you insist on sleeping here, you must sleep in the bed. Otherwise you’ll just make yourself tired.”  
  
“You aren’t afraid of me,” he heard himself say and she gave him a weary smile.  
  
“No,” she said, “of course not. Come here, you moron. I want to sleep.”  
  
He lay next to her and listened to her breaths grow steadier and slower. Soon she fell asleep, and he turned to his side and watched her face, her closed eyes and parted lips and a drop of saliva on the corner of her mouth. She didn’t wake up when he caught it with his finger nor did she wake up when he let his fingers slowly caress her cheek. She was so beautiful and so fragile, and his breath got stuck when he looked at her.  
  
The winter was there, he knew it as the snow fell against the windows, and the woman lying next to him was everything he cared about, everything his weary heart still beat for. He had to keep her safe, no matter what. He had had his brothers’ knives in his chest, but she’d had worse, she had been carrying the child of the man who had wronged her the most, she’d been taken and sold and scarred and used, but now it was over. He placed a soft kiss on her hair and she stirred but didn’t wake up, this broken thing he’d protect the rest of his days.  
  
**  
  
“My King,” Sir Davos said watching him, worry in his eyes, “I hear you ain’t sleeping in your own chambers.”  
  
“That’s true.” He threw a sharp glance at Davos, but the man didn’t startle.  
  
“You’ll have to take a wife, my King. Not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but soon. Northern lords are already offering you their highborn daughters. We’ve had four ravens already this week.”  
  
“I will not rush such a matter.”  
  
“Of course, my King,” he said, “but still, you might not want to sleep in your sister’s chamber.” He frowned and Davos gave him an apologetic smile. “Your servants will talk, and then your lords will talk, and then their daughters will wonder. And we all know she’s not your sister anymore. You’d have better start with your future Queen if you didn’t plant suspicion on her mind before you’re even married.”  
  
“Lady Sansa needs me. She’s been wronged, she’s afraid and I won’t neglect her out of fear of rumors.”  
  
“Then perhaps we might find a husband for her,” Davos said, “someone gentle and worthy of her, someone who would keep her safe. Certainly any man of yours would be happy to marry a woman like her.”  
  
“No man is worthy of her,” he said. He hadn’t seen her in hours. His men had wanted to talk about the war to come, the war between the dead and the living and he had ached to excuse himself and go back to her. And now Davos kept saying these insane things, like he ever could give her hand to any other man, like she would ever trust anyone. Davos didn’t understand. No one understood. She was his to protect. She was the only thing that made him feel alive these days.  
  
“As you say, my King,” Davos said and watched him with a careful look, but he didn’t mind, it meant nothing to him what Davos or anyone else thought. But as he later climbed the stairs to the tower, Davos’ words were still echoing in his head, _someone who would keep her safe._  
  
**  
  
“I want you to marry me.”  
  
She looked at him, startled, and he kept his gaze in her eyes.  
  
“Jon,” she said then, but she sounded quite tired, not like someone who’d like to argue, “I’m your sister.”  
  
“No.” She turned her eyes away and he knelt before her, grabbing her arms that were lying on her lap. “You never were. I’m a bastard son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen and you’re Sansa Stark, a trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark, my cousin. Howland Reed was a loyal friend of your father. I won’t dishonor him by doubting his word. You ain’t my sister and you never were.”  
  
“You’re doing this to protect me – “ Sansa’s voice had gone more tense, “ – but I swear to you, Jon, you don’t need to. They’ll want you to marry some highborn lady, someone who makes your claim as a King in the North stronger.”  
  
“Aye. Davos talked to me about it. He told me not to sleep in your room.”  
  
Sansa let out a shattered laugh. “I can believe that.”  
  
“And he thinks we need to find someone for you, too, son of some highborn lord” he said, and there was something dark in Sansa’s eyes, like a hidden hint of terror, and he thought _thank Gods, she doesn’t want to do it,_ “someone who can protect you. But I can. I can and I will, and I’ll never let any other man touch you ever again. I swear that to you.”  
  
“You could still marry someone else,” she said, but her voice was hesitant and he found himself smiling just a little, “and I could be an old widow living in your castle. I’d take care of your children or anything you laid upon me and you’d know I’m safe.”  
  
“But don’t you see – “ he placed a kiss on her hand, “ – you don’t have to be an old widow in my castle, you’ll be my Queen.”  
  
“But – “ her thumb was caressing the back of his hand, and he lay another kiss on her warm skin, “ – but, _Jon,_ you’ll want children, you’ll want an heir – “  
  
“No,” he said firmly, “I don’t care about that. Aye, I would be happy to have children, but it won’t matter to me, you’re everything that matters. And I won’t ever lay my hand on you unless you wish me to, you know that, never, not for a child or an heir or anything else.”  
  
“You’re making a promise far too big.”  
  
“You must marry me, Sansa, ‘cause I won’t have it any other way.”  
  
She took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll marry you.”  
  
**  
  
They said their vows in the godswood because everyone insisted on it, including Sansa, who had claimed it wouldn’t be real if they didn’t say it aloud in front of the eyes of the old gods. He was quite sure he didn’t believe in gods anymore, new or old, but he said the words anyway and tried to keep his eyes only on her. There were far too many people for his liking, but Davos had told him it would be essential, especially because he wasn’t going to allow the bedding and because the North still struggled with the idea of them not being siblings anymore.  
  
“I’ll take this man,” Sansa said on her turn, and Jon kissed the back of her hand and then her cheek and he felt the gazes of his lords on him and hated it, but it was somehow difficult to think about anything else when she was standing there with him. Her red hair was braided and she was wearing a simple white gown, a warm cloak on her shoulders. He remembered he had loved another woman once, but it had been a long time since he’d remembered how it had felt. He had lost it in the darkness. Now he thought, _this must be something like that, this must be how it feels to be in love with someone_ , because all he wanted in this world was to hold Sansa in his arms and keep her safe from everyone and everything.  
  
There was a feast back in the castle. He had tried to avoid it but they hadn’t let him, _it must be a proper wedding_ , sir Davos had said with eyes full of worry. So they sat on the long table and ate and drank and listened to people who wanted to wish them well, and it took ages but finally it was over. He gave his arm to her and walked her away from the hall, through the corridors and the stairs and up to the tower, and she was pale and silent next to him, probably tired of all those people.  
  
He closed the door behind them and the voice of it made her startle.  
  
“Sansa,” he said, stepping forward, “what’s wrong?”  
  
She opened her mouth and then closed it again, her blue eyes staring right into him. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”  
  
“You must trust me.”  
  
“I do,” she said quietly, “I really do. What do you want me to do?”  
  
“Nothing,” he said frowning and then threw a glance at the locked door, “no, Sansa, this is nothing like the wedding nights you had before. It’s just me.”  
  
She nodded but kept looking at him with an expression that made something ache inside him, and he swallowed and then knelt before her, taking her hands in his and pressing them against his own cheeks. Her hands were cold, though, cold and unmoving, but when he dropped his own hands her fingers stayed against his skin.  
  
“You see – “ his voice was husky and his heart was somehow beating quite fast, “ – you can do anything you want or nothing at all. No one is going to go after us asking if we slept together or not. They call me a King now.”  
  
“A king also has to do his part,” she said, but he barely heard her words because she had begun caressing his cheeks, gently rubbing over his beard.  
  
“Aye, but this is no one’s business but ours. If they ask me about it I’ll see that they don’t ask again.”  
  
And by that, Sansa laughed, and his chest ached because there was something genuine in her laugh. “Don’t behead them for asking, husband.”  
  
“Husband,” he repeated blankly. Her hands had moved onto his hair. She gently let his hair loose and then rubbed the skin underneath, slowly and carefully, and he heard himself sigh.  
  
“Yes,” she said, “you’re mine and I’m yours. I believe that’s how it goes.”  
  
“I was always yours, since the moment you rode into Castle Black.”  
  
“Good. I want something of you now, Jon.”  
  
He opened his eyes and looked up. She had still hands on his hair but her eyes looked straight into him. “What?” he asked.  
  
“I want my scars taken off,” she said, and although she tried to sound firm there was something restless underneath, “they have been his and I want them off. I want him off my skin.”  
  
“I don’t know how to do that.”  
  
“Yes, you do. You kissed one once.”  
  
“Yes, but – “ he began and then frowned, “ – but you don’t want me to – “  
  
“You took me as your wife,” she said, and she was trembling now. He rose slowly onto his feet. She was barely taller than him and he found his gaze stopping onto her mouth at first, red lips she was biting at, and he took her jaw carefully into his hand as she kept going, “you took me, so make me yours. I don’t want to be his anymore.”  
  
“You were never his, _never._ ”  
  
“Jon. Don’t make me ask again, this is hard enough as it is.”  
  
“Don’t speak.” Her lips froze, still half-opened, and he placed a soft kiss on her mouth. When he opened his eyes, he saw her watching him, her eyes nervous and restless. “You don’t have to speak. I’m here now, I’m yours, I’ll keep you safe. I’ll make you mine.”  
  
“Please,” Sansa said, and he kissed her again but still she kept talking, “please, do.”  
  
He kissed her as softly as he could, as slowly as he could, his hands caressing her face, and she took his kisses unmoving and silent. He kissed the corner of her mouth and then her lower lip, and she let her lips get slightly apart, and he bit back the moan that was building inside of him. It was fine, it was all fine, he would keep her safe as long as he’d live. He kissed her jaw and the soft warm skin of her neck and then he turned her head to the side and kissed behind her ear, and he thought he felt her breathe a little faster.  
  
She tensed as he undressed her with clumsy words, but then she helped him and they lay the dress aside. There was the scar he had once kissed on her shoulder, and he watched as she stepped out of the simple dress she had worn under, and then she was naked in front of him and he could see them all, the scars, going across her skin like a map of what had been done to her. He couldn’t help but imagine how she had lain in Ramsay’s bed, how he had hold her to kept her silent, or perhaps there had been no need, perhaps she wouldn’t have dared to cry anyway. And Ramsay had knelt over her and pressed the tip of his knife on her skin, and she had trembled as she trembled now when Jon placed her mouth on the scar. But he was careful, he was as careful and gentle as he could ever be, and her hands rose onto his shoulders and kept him close, and when he kissed the scarred skin she let out a sharp breath.  
  
“It’s me,” he said against her skin, smelling her, tasting her, “it’s only me, Jon, you know me, you _own_ me, you know you can ask anything of me and I’ll give it to you. It’s only me.” Her fingers were on the back of his neck, drawing small circles, and he kept going. The scar went down her shoulder to her arm, and he kissed it until the end of it. There was a small patch where the skin had been cut off completely, and he didn’t dare to touch it until Sansa hissed at him and he placed the softest of kisses on it. She whimpered with pain anyway and he kissed her palm and fingers, one by one, and through her wrist he felt her heart beating, almost like it had been beating just for him.  
  
He kissed her through and through, every scar he could find. There was one above her left knee and he heard her sharp breath as he knelt down before her, but then she was silent again, her hands on his hair, and he kissed the scar all the way when it travelled up her thigh and finally stopped at her hipbone. There was a scar on her stomach, one that made him even angrier than the others, because it seemed like the monster had wanted to cut her open, to cut her womb out. The red hair between her thighs tickled against his neck as he kissed her stomach thoroughly.  
  
One of the scars travelled beside her left breast, circling it, and he heard his own heart drumming in his ears when he licked it. She was silent once again, and surely she had to hear his heart, so loud it was. Her hands had gone unmoving on his hair but she still hold them there, and he felt her breast press against his cheek as his kisses travelled with the scar. And then he rose onto his feet again and heard her sigh.  
  
She said nothing when he turned her around. Her back was full of them, too, full of pale red marks. A few of them went down across her bottom and onto the back of her thighs. He started with them and felt her shiver, but his hands were on her legs and she didn’t move, not a bit, not even later when he bent her down onto the bed and climbed over her to deal with the scars on her upper back, the ones that had to be almost visible even when she was wearing a dress. He kissed them all and, finally, his nose pressed against her neck and his hands holding her hips, she let out a long sigh and he kissed her once more and backed away.  
  
She turned to face him. She was sitting on the bed, naked, her eyes fixed on his. “Thank you.”  
  
“Don’t say that,” he said, clearing his throat because his voice had gone lost somehow, “don’t thank me like I wasn’t happy to do it.”  
  
She swallowed. “You’re still clothed.”  
  
“Aye.”  
  
“You can undress if you like, you know.”  
  
“Do you want me to?” he asked, and she watched him with parted lips.  
  
“No,” she said, “yes, I don’t know. Please, Jon, can’t you just go through with it?”  
  
“I won’t unless you ask me to.”  
  
She cursed under her breath and he found that he was staring at her mouth. “Fine. Take off your clothes. Please.”  
  
He did. His breathing was jagged and his heart kept drumming madly but still his hands didn’t tremble. He kept his eyes on her the whole time, and she just sat there, watching him as he slowly stepped out of all his clothes. Her face was pale and solemn and her mouth was pressed tightly shut but still she watched him carefully, and he found himself shivering but perhaps it was because of the cold.  
  
“Now come here,” she said, and he walked to her, sitting onto the bed in front of her. “Kiss me.”  
  
She let him part her lips now, like they had been lovers, and he couldn’t help but moan.  
  
“Lie me down,” she said against his mouth, “I want you to lie me down and come onto me.”  
  
“Aye,” he said, and there she was, pale and beautiful under him, and he kissed her mouth and everything else he could reach, and now it wasn’t about the scars, now it was about her.  
  
“Now take me,” she whispered into his hair as he was kissing her collarbone, “take me as you wish and I’ll be yours.”  
  
“You’ll be mine,” he answered.  
  
She flinched when he lay his hand on her thigh, and then again when his thumb pressed softly against the coarse hair down there and his fingers stopped, waiting as he kissed her until she sighed and kissed him back again. He caressed her slowly, carefully, and she watched him, her eyes guarded. He wanted to make her forget but it seemed he couldn’t, and he was already aching, he really was, he had thought that perhaps he wasn’t quite alive anymore now that he had come back from death, but right now he had no doubts, he was alive. He kissed her everywhere and caressed her until she placed both hands onto his shoulders and commanded, “take me, Jon.”  
  
He took her, and now finally she closed her eyes and then he could close his. She was warm and wet around him and he knew there had been another he had loved in what seemed like a lifetime ago, but he couldn’t remember anymore. He tried to be gentle and slow and didn’t do too good with either, but when he collapsed onto her and pressed one more wet kiss on her forehead and then another on her mouth, she hold him close.  
  
“It’s gone,” she whispered when he was still catching his breath, “he’s gone, I’m yours now.”  
  
“Aye,” he said with a hoarse voice, “you’re mine now.”  
  
**  
  
He woke up only when they came for him. She was lying next to him and he could only see her back, full of scars he had spent the night kissing. He covered her up with furs and went to the door with only his thin undershirt on. The boy looked at him with a curious face and then stole a glance at the woman sleeping on his bed. He frowned and asked what in seven hells it was about, and the boy looked scared enough.  
  
“I’m sorry, my King,” the boy said with a deep bow, something he thought he’d never get used to. “They sent me to… to see if…”  
  
“Fuck off,” he said then, and the boy run away. Davos would scold him later. _Don’t behead them for asking_ , Sansa had said to him, and as he closed the door behind him he drew a deep breath. They would ask. He would tell nothing.  
  
He kissed the bottom of Sansa’s feet, first left and then right, and when she stirred awake he sat beside her on the bed.  
  
“What?” she asked.  
  
“They want to see me. They want to ask me. I’m going down to tell them to mind their own business, and then I’m coming back to you.”  
  
She sat up. “I’m coming, too.”  
  
“No.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “You can stay there. I’ll bring breakfast when I come back.”  
  
“Jon,” she said, grabbing his wrist. “I’m supposed to be your Queen. Surely they need to see me from time to time.”  
  
“Aye,” he said, and when she tried to stand up he carefully lay his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back. “But not today."

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt in whole: "Jon becomes obsessed with the idea of protecting Sansa, limiting her movements until it comes to the point wherein Sansa is once again locked up in a tower. This time though, Sansa is too tired to fight, so she lets whatever the Gods have planned just come to her."
> 
> Jon was supposed to be a semi-dark!Jon and Sansa broken!Sansa. I'm not sure if either of them is very dark or very broken but I really liked interpreting them this way. I suppose I'm just the kind of a fan who wants to have everything covered in angst.


End file.
